


Shamelessly Un-Christmas

by Jade_Masquerade



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-10 00:17:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8919106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jade_Masquerade/pseuds/Jade_Masquerade
Summary: After Jon denied her a kiss under the mistletoe last Christmas, Sansa tries to make amends.





	

Sansa remembered the last time she and Jon passed the mistletoe together that hung in the hallway between the front door and the rest of the Stark house. 

She couldn’t recall what possessed her to drag him under it the year before, except that she expected a begrudging kiss on the cheek like Robb always had given her since they were young and she cajoled him beneath it, enthralled with a childish naivety by the romance of fairytales and stories, making it just another thing to pretend at, like they had played princesses and knights. Perhaps she’d anticipated a pulled face or an awkward side-hug instead, because those things would have been so Jon. And each of those had all happened, sure enough, but only after something else momentarily flashed in Jon’s eyes—something like furtive desire revealed, something red-hot exposed, searing through her—before he flushed and muttered some kind of apology for his hesitation and proceeded as predicted. 

She hadn’t forgotten that look. 

On occasion, she questioned if she’d imagined it, but no. No, there was no way her brain could have conjured up something like that, coming from Jon, no less, who she’d sworn in high school was practically asexual when he always seemed to turn a blind eye to the parade of girls Robb and Theon had consistently entertained. 

He probably thought she’d have been scandalized, shocked and disgusted, and she would have predicted feeling the same, until it actually happened. Instead she felt an acute thrill, a wicked exhilaration, an electrifying heat, being on the receiving end of such a gaze, however fleeting. 

It was why she jumped up and volunteered to answer the door when Jon arrived for this year’s Stark family Christmas party. 

“Hi, Jon,” she answered brightly, letting him in. She observed him keenly, waiting for that look that had haunted her, the look she’d entertained some nights spent alone, when she slipped a hand beneath her covers and felt how just thinking about that look made her body respond, hot and wet. In those moments, she imagined, they didn’t need the mistletoe, their bodies pressed together far closer than they did during their half-hearted embrace, and Jon’s lips weren’t just on her cheek, but moving against hers, sliding down her throat, her chest, everywhere… 

He registered surprise at her appearance, quickly soothed by his usual brooding expression, and wished her a Merry Christmas while warily eyeing the mistletoe dangling in its traditional spot and turning almost as red as the scarf he unwound from around his neck. 

Then Theon and Robb ruined the moment, crowding into the hallway and pressing a beer into Jon’s hand. 

She followed them through the kitchen and the living room, watching Jon move in his tight jeans and evergreen sweater as he told Theon and Robb about the snowy roads on the drive over, and how he didn’t want to know the total of the electrical bill for the house down the street who’d set up more lighted decorations than every other house in sight combined. They paused when they reached the door to the basement, where the Christmas festivities were traditionally held in a space large enough to fit a full bar, tables and tables of food, and the sprawling Stark family and all of their assorted guests. 

“After you,” Jon muttered, stepping aside so Sansa could pass in front of him. 

She wanted to let herself think that it was because he wanted to admire her tight black skirt from the back, or the way she descended the stairs gracefully in her black knee-high boots, but she knew he was probably just being polite. It was both gratifying and infuriating.

He drifted away once they joined the party, headed to the bar to wish her father and his perpetually-drinking buddy, Robert Baratheon, a Merry Christmas. She knew she shouldn’t feel disappointment for watching Jon isolate himself on the other side of the room, for him not bothering to ask her how school was (fine, but busy), or if she’d found an internship for next year yet (unfortunately no), or if she’d finally broken up with her on-again, off-again boyfriend, Joffrey, for good (the answer was a definitive, resounding yes). 

It wasn’t like they were friends, per se. And though he attended all the Stark family functions, they weren’t technically family either, so it wasn’t like he owed anything to her, but he’d always managed to be civil at least, even caring, and never outright cold. She’d barely seen him since last year though, with her away at college and him back in Winterfell, and then he spent the summer traveling literally to the ends of the earth while she was at home, and she certainly hadn’t seen him back at the scene of last year’s awkward incident. For all she knew, and for all the signs Jon had given, he probably hated her for putting him into such an embarrassing position. 

And yet… and yet… hate had not been a part of that look, not at all—anything but. 

She flitted around, finding ways to distract herself, replacing the bag in the teeming trashcan, refilling empty bowls of chips, drinking a glass of wine that matched her blood red blouse, all while keeping Jon in the corner of her eye where he sulked intermittently alongside Arya and in conversation with Robb and Theon. She helped the younger kids with handing out presents, even giving a red box tied with gold ribbon to Jon at one point, who strangely didn’t even say thank you this time, just issuing her a terse nod before returning to his hot chocolate spiked with peppermint schnapps. 

After opening her own presents, clothes from her parents, a gift card from Robb, and trinkets from her younger siblings, she saw Jon head upstairs without opening his and left her unwrapped gifts on the table to follow. She’d had enough anyway of mingling with Aunt Lysa while her cousin Robert clung to her skirts and whined, avoiding Lysa’s husband Petyr, who was even worse, with his inquires of where all her pretty friends were at, and watching Arya teach Bran and Rickon to fence with long rolls of extra wrapping paper while her mother chastised them to behave.

Upstairs was silent, though, as she crept through each room, grimacing when the heels of her boots clicked on the hardwood floors with each step. Maybe Jon had simply gone to the bathroom, or perhaps he’d left the noisy basement to call someone, although she couldn’t imagine whom since as far as she knew, everyone he knew was here. 

“Jon.” 

He froze beside the kitchen counter, his hand with the glass of water in it halfway to his lips. Those pink, perfect lips that she’d imagined doing unspeakable things to her. Not that she would ever tell Jon any of that. Hell no. 

She held up her hands in defense. “Jon, I came to apologize.”

He simply stared. Jon was so easy to read, she’d always thought. There was his state of continuous melancholy, and then there was everything else—moments of happiness, anger, or astonishment—rare and brief respites from his pervasive glumness. But now, she wasn’t sure what his blankness meant. 

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable or if I offended you.” 

“You didn’t,” he said so sharply it was obviously untrue. 

“Okay. Good.”

He finally took a sip of his water and focused his eyes intently on the ground. 

“Are you going to avoid me forever?” 

He drank the water again before casting it aside. “I haven’t been avoiding you.”

“It kind of seems like that when you haven’t looked up at me all night.”

He stepped closer, and his voice dropped an octave. “Maybe that’s because this whole time I’ve been trying not to look _down_.”

She stood her ground as he approached, noting how his eyes darkened, how his lips parted, how he suddenly seemed almost predatory. _Yes_ , that was it, that was the same look she recognized, she craved… 

He let his eyes sweep over her, locking first with hers, and then blazing down the bare skin of her chest. “Maybe that’s because this whole time I’ve been hoping _you_ don’t look down.” 

It was a Christmas miracle that she somehow averted the temptation to look down, knowing full well what she’d see if she did. 

“Maybe it’s because I didn’t want to look at you, didn’t want to touch you, because I knew I wouldn’t be able to mask _this_ anymore.” 

This should have felt like a sham, a trap, complete insanity, anything besides a delirious thrill as she grabbed his hand and pulled him upstairs to her room before any other partygoers could emerge from the basement. 

She shut the door behind themselves, the room dark except for the icicle lights outside her window, and she let her hair down so it flowed over her shoulders and started to slip out of her blouse. 

“Wait,” Jon protested before she could undo the buttons at the end of her sleeves and slide the entire thing off her shoulders. 

“Oh right, I forgot,” she said, before hauling him into a hungry kiss. Of course even this version of Jon would be a sappy romantic and would expect to kiss before doing anything else. 

She took no time at all in pressing him up against the back of her door. She could taste the peppermint liquor on his tongue, and she didn’t know how, or why, but she could have sworn he smelled like pine trees, too. She imagined what they must have looked like together, so perfectly Christmas, him in his green sweater and her in dark red, her bright red hair in his hands. 

Except now it was time to do things shamelessly un-Christmas. 

She slid down his body, Jon watching her, cautioning her, as she lifted the hem of his sweater to reach the zipper on his jeans beneath. “Sansa…” 

He was already hard as she expected, and he hissed as she parted his fly and her fingers skimmed over his cock through the fabric of his boxer briefs. 

“So _this_ is the gift you’ve been trying to hide from me all night, hm?” she asked, taking no mercy, sliding him out and working her hand down his length. 

“It’s fucking Christmas… why would I… how was I supposed to know…” he started, but she never did find out what he would have done if he knew she wanted him like this, because she took him in her mouth and his words faded into a groan. She sucked him deeper, letting him slide out only so she could swirl her tongue around his tip. 

“Seven hells, Sansa,” he gasped, his head a dull thud against the door as he leaned it back. He jumped against her tongue and she reached back into his boxers, feeling his balls just as soft and warm as his cock. He was going to cum soon if she didn’t stop, she knew it, she could make him do it, and she thought wickedly of how he’d been scared to kiss her last year, but apparently he had no qualms anymore about her mouth touching him like this… 

But then he pulled her up off her knees and a second later it was her turn against the door. 

He pushed her skirt up her thighs and she silently thanked past Sansa for not wearing tights as she’d considered earlier. She had worn some salacious underwear though, a black lace thong Jon easily slid aside. 

One leg up over his shoulder, her hands in his hair to balance, and his lips on her clit, and suddenly she didn’t understand why he’d been nervous to kiss her, not when he had a tongue that could do those kinds of things. She didn’t know how he could do this, how he knew all the right places to swipe over, and she didn’t care. Maybe it was because this way Jon didn’t have to talk, he had never been one for words, but either way, it was a true gift indeed, easily beating out the rest of the presents she’d abandoned downstairs, more pleasurable than any of the cake and wine and holiday silliness she left behind… 

He pressed one finger into her, followed by another in response to her moan, and she couldn’t stop, she couldn’t refrain like Jon had, pulsing around his fingers, against his mouth, her body boneless, made molten by his attentions. 

“There’s condoms in the bottom drawer,” she panted, shoving him away when he looked as though he could go back for more, pointing to her dresser, still sagging against the door. She would have gotten them herself, had her head not been spinning as though he’d shaken her in a snow globe. 

Jon dug through the drawer and turned around when he found them, seeming confused about why she hadn’t moved yet. 

“Right here,” she said, wishing she didn’t sound so breathless, that she had voice left to tell him all the things she wanted. 

“Won’t you be uncomfortable?” he said, eyeing the bed. 

“I am uncomfortable, Jon,” she said irritably, “every second you aren’t inside of me.” 

That finally seemed to hasten him along; he pushed his pants and boxers down so they pooled just above his knees and slid the condom down his length, and she, blissfully pliable, allowed him to move her so he could lean back against the door. 

She extricated him from his sweater, thinking of how it looked so nice on him, but that the way his chest glinted with sweat, how his muscles flexed to pull her towards him, how his skin flushed with need looked even better. 

Even though her blouse was already low enough for him to kiss the tops of her breasts, he freed her nipples with a slight tug, sucking one into his mouth before dragging his lips across her chest to the other. He’d apparently taken her underwear off at some point, probably during the delicious distraction he performed with his tongue, so he positioned himself and thrust up into her. 

She was tight like this, her knee bent alongside Jon’s hip, his hand curled around her thigh to lift her leg higher, that look of naked desire burning through her again. He let her sink down slowly, his full weight against the door as he supported hers. Luckily she was wet, and he slid in easily once he got the angle right. 

Sansa gasped once he was all the way in, satisfyingly filled at last. She didn’t think it could feel any better until he drew himself out and plunged back in, and it did get better, a thousand times better, enough for her to dig her heel of her boot into the back of his leg, to sink her nails into the heated skin of his arms, to cry his name along with a demand for more. 

And he gave more, his hands working on her hips, pulling her down onto him while he drove upward, tilting her until he could perfectly rub against that spot inside that made her stifle a scream against his shoulder. 

It probably would have been enough, just like that, but no, Jon had to find a way to overachieve, snaking a hand down between them to press against her. 

“Fuck,” she let slip, and she caught his smirk before she closed her eyes again, the sensation of his hot chest against her, his curls between her fingers, his lips reddened by her kisses, all too much paired with that scorching look, the one she’d spent a year fantasizing about, right in front of her. 

He reached around and unclasped her bra, tossing it to the floor. “In the way,” he muttered, pulling away to admire the sight of her fully bare breasts. 

“You can undo this, but not your bows downstairs?” she teased, squirming against him, her hips refusing to pause as he continued to stare for another long moment. 

“All I want for Christmas,” Jon bent to growl in her ear, “is to see your pretty face when you come around my cock.” 

He drove upward again. Not one to deny joy, Sansa chased her orgasm, needing only seconds more to give him his wish, bending backward, buoyed by his arm locked around her. She expected the same feeling as before, waiting for the knee-weakening, liquefying wave to wash over her again, but something far more intense skewered through her this time, enflamed by his words, his thickness inside of her. 

Her second time left her wanting still more, so she enthusiastically acquiesced when he switched with her so he could have his turn then. She soon found herself glad that not one, but two floors separated them from where everyone else carried on with the festivities none the wiser, the tiny band of bells she’d placed on her doorknob as a decoration jingling each time Jon fucked her into the door, the enormous velvet ribbon she’d used to wrap around her door to make it look like a huge present scratching against her back. The ornaments on the small Christmas tree on her dresser shook, and she understood, her legs trembling, too, with Jon’s efforts. 

She skimmed her hands down his back, enjoying the feeling of his body tightening, her mind wondering as much as his fervor would allow. What _was_ this? Was this why he was so quiet all the time, keeping this bottled up? 

He came with another low growl, his lips at her throat more teeth than kisses, his arms caged on either side of her as he struggled to hold himself up without crushing her to the door. She threaded her hands through his hair as he rested his forehead against her shoulder, naked now that her blouse pooled around her waist along with her bunched skirt. 

When he spoke, it seemed as if he pulled the words from deep in his throat. “We should go back downstairs.”

“Jon, don’t make me fucking walk down those stairs right now.” She didn’t think she could stand once he let go of her, much less make it down thirteen steps and then fourteen more to the basement. 

“We have to go back down,” he insisted, not moving away even as he shifted his hips to pull out. 

She tried to keep her voice measured to avoid betraying her disappointment. “Why?” 

“Don’t you still want that kiss under the mistletoe?”


End file.
